


Safe and Round

by caloriebomb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Chubby Sam, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Multi, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:34:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: Sam is happy to have John off his back when he goes away to Stanford and finally gets to relax. With the pressure gone and college life Sam quickly starts to pile on the pounds. Dean misses his brother and sneaks away for a visit and is surprised that Sam has already managed to pack on the freshman 15 and then some. Dean loves seeing his brother happy so he isn't hard on him. He does make a comment in passing about how Sam has gained almost a pound a day since he started school and how their dad would freak, and the wheels in Sam's head start to turn...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe and Round

**Author's Note:**

> Um yes hello I'm back with yet another freaky kinky weight gain fic. Enjoy?

Sam was nine the first time his father commented on his weight. 

He was sitting at the kitchen table with Dean, working on his math homework and happily eating the bologna sandwich his brother had fixed him as an after-school snack, when the front door slammed and John trudged into the dingy kitchen, a butterfly bandaid on one cheek but otherwise unhurt.

“You're back,” Dean said, grinning in relief, and John stooped to ruffle both his sons' hair. 

“Everything goin' good here?” John said, but didn't wait for the answer before frowning down at Sam's sandwich. “Is this dinner?”

“No,” Dean said, “I was waiting for you. I'm thinking maybe mac and cheese tonight?”

“Yeah!” Sam said.

“You're gonna ruin your appetite, Sammy,” John said, and to Sam's dismay, he slid the half-finished plate away. “You're already getting a little chunky, and extra weight's a liability in the kind of life we lead.”

Sam was pissed about the sandwich, but not hurt, not really. He was too young to give much thought to his body yet, and kept on devouring candy and pizza and soda the way he always had. The pudge stuck to him determinedly, to John's oft-expressed dismay, until he shot up six and a half inches between thirteen and fifteen and found himself suddenly thin. Not just thin – skinny. Ribs showing, elbows sharp, hips poking. 

“Thank god,” John said, “your fat phase is over,” but Sam wasn't sure he agreed about it being a good thing. It was weird, being so stick-thin, weird to have no padding, no buffer. He wasn't entirely certain he liked it. And it made Dean anxious, how skinny he was. 

“People are gonna think I don't feed you enough,” Dean complained, trying to pinch Sam's hip but failing, unable to gain any purchase. “No one would believe me if I said you ate more than me or Dad combined.”

“If I'd stop growing, this wouldn't be an issue,” Sam said. He'd just had to let down the hem of his newest jeans, the ones that were supposed to last him more than four months without getting too short, and he was frustrated. “It's not like I wanna be this skinny. I look like a freakin' ghoul.”

“Better this than that pudge you were sportin' as a kid,” John said, overhearing, and Dean scowled.

“At least back then you looked healthy,” Dean muttered.

“I am healthy!” Sam said, affronted. 

“You're fine, Sammy,” John agreed. “You don't wanna be one of those people always watching their weight. Gotta admit, I was worried for a minute there.”

“We know, Dad,” Dean said. “You only told him eight thousand times.”

“Don't me smart with me, kid,” John said, and Dean rolled his eyes at Sam. 

Sam stayed skinny all through high school, and would stare at himself in the mirror sometimes and wonder what it'd be like to still be chubby, or even fat, whether John would have even let him hunt with fifty extra pounds on him.

Might even have been better, Sam decided, to have never lost the weight. To have stayed soft, un-hunterlike, his outside appearance matching the way he felt inside. Maybe John wouldn't have been so furious with a fat son. Wouldn't have expected so fucking much. Wouldn't have slammed the door in Sam's face and shouted, “If you leave this house, you're never coming back!”

“He doesn't mean it,” Dean pleaded at the bus stop that night, Sam with a one-way ticket to Stanford clutched in his shaking hand. “C'mon, Sammy, come back and make it up with him, please.”

“He does mean it,” Sam said, jaw clenched. “And I'm glad to have an excuse to be out, Dean. Out completely. I don't want this fucking life and you know it.”

“Don't think you can escape me, though,” Dean said, as close to tears as Sam had seen him in years. “I'm gonna keep an eye on you, you little punk. Gonna call you, and email you, and visit you, and --”

“Promise?” Sam said. “You promise you'll come?”

“Yeah, man, of course,” Dean said. “You're my brother. Nothing's gonna change that.”

 

The best thing about college, Sam quickly decides, is the dining hall. Or the beer. Or his new roommate, a frisbee-playing tie-dyed dude from New York who's the most generous person Sam's ever met besides Dean. Alex's dad is some Wall Street bigwig, and he uses his trust fund not only to buy all Sam's egregiously expensive textbooks, but also to keep their room well-stocked in weed, booze, and enough junk food to fill the shelves of a small convenience store.

“What's mine is yours,” he tells Sam that first night, after ordering two large pepperoni pizzas and dropping one on Sam's bed as a welcome gift. “I've got money coming out my ears, bro, and I didn't do shit for it. Least I can do is keep your skinny ass well-fed.”

The dining hall is a revelation, though. Alex wakes Sam up their first morning together with a bong and a grin, and Sam stumbles through the cafeteria stoned out of his mind, mouth watering at everything. When he sits down next to Alex at a table full of beautiful, friendly humans he just can't wait to get to know, Alex stares at Sam's tray with unabashed delight.

“Dude,” Alex says. “Yes.”

Sam looks down and giggles. “Mighta gone overboard.”

“You think?” says the cute blond sitting across from him. “Twenty bucks says you're not gonna finish any of that.”

“Twenty bucks says he will,” Alex shoots back. “My boy's strong.” He thwacks Sam on the back. “Go get 'em, Tiger.”

And Sam does. He eats a waffle slathered in syrup and butter, a bagel and cream cheese, a plate of scrambled eggs and cheddar, a ham-and-cheese croissant, two powdered donuts, and two huge glasses of chocolate milk. The whole table's watching him as he stuffs the last bite of donut into his mouth, and everyone erupts into cheers as Alex grabs his wrist and raises his hand high above his head.

“The champion!” he crows, and Sam nods to his admirers a little dazedly, so full he can hardly focus. When Alex drops his arm he touches his belly, wincing. He can feel how stuffed he is by the tight drum of his poor stomach. 

“Aw, man,” the cute blond – Jess – says, and wrinkles her nose at him. “You couldn't'a left one bite, for me? Now I'm out twenty bucks.”

“Nah,” Alex says, waving his hand. “Watching Sam shovel all that down was reward enough for me.”

“I have to admit,” Jess says, “it was impressive. Congratulations, champ.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, and lets out a huge burp that has everyone laughing and cheering all over again. “Wait'll you see me at lunch,” he says, and glances at Jess. She's smiling at him. 

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” she says. 

 

Sam never thought of his childhood as deprived, exactly, but he's certainly not used to having as much as he wants, whenever he wants, and he has to admit he goes a little crazy those first few months. The dining hall opens for dinner at 5 and closes at 8, and Sam's usually there for all three hours, partially because it's the best place to socialize, but more so he can eat as much as possible. A whole crew of people hang out in the cafeteria like that, including Alex and Jess, and oftentimes someone will sneak in a flask and they'll all doctor their sodas and get the party started early. Sam laughs and talks and drinks with the others, but they stick to one meal while Sam can't quit going back for more. A sixth slice of pizza, say, or a second burger, or a tray of french fries and onion rings to top off the two bowls of pasta he started with. There's a soft serve machine that he can't get enough of, and he always caps his meal with a slice of cake and a generous helping of ice cream, often with crushed-up Oreos on top. 

He loves his classes, keeps all his grades in the A range, but he parties hard, too, downing cup after red plastic cup of beer each night and smoking Alex's amazing weed. He and Alex get high almost every night, and almost every night around midnight they order two pizzas – vegetarian for hippie Alex, and meat-lover's for Sam, not so much because it's his favorite but because it reminds him of Dean. Alex usually eats a couple slices and then puts the rest in the mini-fridge or wanders out into the hallway to share with some late-night studier, and at first Sam does the same, but as the weeks pass he finds himself demolishing the whole thing more often than not. 

There's nothing he loves more, in fact, than getting high and slouching down on his pillows with an entire pizza just for him, lazily shoving slice after gooey, greasy, delicious slice into his mouth, getting a little out of breath as he gets fuller and fuller, his stomach bloating outwards and aching pleasantly. He loves the feeling of pure indulgence, loves rubbing his belly after all the pizza's gone, loves how good it feels to be so stuffed and sated. So safe.

Given his eating habits, he shouldn't be surprised when his jeans start getting a little tight, but he is. He's been skinny for so long it didn't even occur to him he could gain weight at all, and he can't figure out why he he's having trouble getting comfortable in class until he realizes it's because his waistband is cutting into him painfully. He's in sociology when he figures it out. He's just come from his two-hour lunch and is absentmindedly eating a bag of M&Ms and thinking about how much Dean loves them, and he tilts the bag to get the last of the candies, then fidgets a little in his seat, leans back, leans forward, stretches his legs. He lets out a quite burp against the back of his hand and feels a little better as soon as he expels the air and his bloated stomach goes down a fraction of an inch. 

And, oh. His stomach. Hurts. 

He drops a hand to the waistband of his pants and gives them a surreptitious tug, raising his eyebrows when he feels how little space there is left between his belly and waistband. He glances down at himself and sees that his formerly flat stomach is undeniably more rounded beneath one of Dean's old Zeppelin t-shirts, and experiences a brief pang of fear, of guilt and shame and determination to stop the midnight pizza feasts. 

Hunters cannot gain weight. 

But... Sam's not a hunter anymore. He left that life. It was his choice, and he did it, and he's out. It doesn't matter if he gains a couple pounds – no one's gonna yell at him, and no one's life will be in danger because if it. 

He looks down at his stomach again and this time, instead of seeing weakness, he sees security. Safety. A different kind of strength.

That night, as he munches his nightly pizza, he says to Alex, just to test the waters, “I keep eating like this, I'm gonna blow up like a balloon, dude.”

“Freshman fifteen,” Alex says, waving his hand. “Everyone gets it. It's like, famous. Plus, you could stand to gain some weight – you showed up looking like a scarecrow.”

It feels so nice to have it brushed aside like that, like no big deal. Sam's a civilian now. He can eat as much pizza as he wants.

“Seems like every time I talk to you, you're munchin' on something,” Dean says a few days later. “What is it this time?”

“Brownies,” Sam says, ripping off a bite of his fourth in as many minutes. “My friend Jess's mom sent them to her and she brought me and Alex some.”

“Your friends sound nice,” Dean says.

“They are. When're you gonna come and meet them, huh?”

“First week of November, if I can,” Dean says. “Got a couple jobs lined up, but I think I can get away from Dad.”

“That'll be two whole months since I last saw you,” Sam says. “Crazy, huh? Feels like years.”

“Maybe for you,” Dean sighs. “You got a whole new life to get used to. Me, I'm just doin' the same old shit.”

“You could move here,” Sam says, knowing he'll just get a snort in response, and Dean doesn't disappoint him.

“Yeah, right,” he says.

Jess pokes her head around Sam's door and grins when she sees him on his bed with the plate of brownies. “We're gonna get a snack at Taco Bell,” she says. “Wanna come?”

“Yeah!” he says. “Just lemme – hey, Dean, I gotta go.”

“Taco Bell, I heard,” Dean says, sounding amused. “Go, have fun.”

“You've gotta come in November,” Sam says. “Promise me, please.”

“I'll do my best,” Dean says. 

At Taco Bell, Sam goes a little wild ordering, feeling hungry and happy and free. Nobody tells him he's a liability, nobody tells him to save money for ammo. Jess just scootches further down the booth to make room for Sam's 40 oz Baja Blast, his two XXL Grilled Stufft Burritos, his soft chicken taco and his Volcano Nachos. Everyone's done eating long before Sam is, but they're happy to sit and shoot the shit while he mops up the last of the cheese sauce and ground beef, trying to control his heavy breathing so they can't tell how full he is. 

“You want the rest of these?” Jess asks, pushing her cheesy potatoes towards him, and he doesn't have enough breath to answer so he just nods and picks up a fork as she smiles at him. 

“Jess,” Brady groans, “don't encourage him. At this rate, we'll be here all day!”

“You want the rest of my quesadilla?” Becky asks, giggling as Brady thunks his head on his hand. 

“No,” Sam says, heaving a queasy burp. “But I will. Just to,” he takes a shallow breath, “piss Brady off.”

“That's my roomie,” Alex beams. “Fuckin' eating machine, I swear.”

 

Sam's jeans get tighter and tighter until one morning it's too much of a hassle to try and get them buttoned, so he shrugs and puts on a pair of old sweatpants. Plenty of people wear sweats to class and it's no big deal, though Brady chuckles knowingly when Sam sits next to him in the cafeteria with three slices of pizza and a cheeseburger. 

“Grown outta your jeans before first semester's even half over?” Brady says, and Sam flushes, because Jess is right there and he's recently admitted to himself that he has a little crush on the blonde. Well, little is maybe not the right word. Mammoth might be more accurate.

“Yup,” he says, taking a bite of his cheeseburger, trying to play it off like it's no big deal. He doesn't think Jess minds, anyway, because later that day she comes by to study and brings along a plate of her mom's oversized homemade peanut butter chocolate chip cookies.

“I've had enough cookies to last me a lifetime,” she says, after Sam eats two and politely declines a third, though he wants one. “Seriously, have another.”

So Sam does.

“Please,” Jess says, “would you just eat them all? They're dangerous to have around.” She pats her flat belly and smiles. “Not all of us look as cute in sweatpants as you do.”

There were twelve enormous cookies, and by the end of their study session Sam's cleaned the plate and is glad of the elastic waistband of his sweats. 

“I'll tell my mom to send her seven layer bars next,” Jess says as she leaves. “You'll love them!”

 

He wears the sweats for a few days but buys new jeans the week before Dean's due to visit, and spends a solid hour staring at himself in the mirror, worrying that Dean will notice the weight he's gained, worried about what Dean will think, how he'll react, if he'll tell John. 

He's told Alex bits and pieces about his childhood, and Alex knows the very basics, including that he had a pretty controlling Dad and a pretty strict lifestyle, and when he comes in to find Sam standing in front of their full-length mirror with his t-shirt pulled up, a hand poking his thickening middle, he seems to know immediately what's going on.

“Dude,” Alex says, flopping down onto his bed to pack a bowl. “Thought your Dad wasn't coming; thought you said it was just your brother.”

“It is,” Sam says, dropping his t-shirt back down and watching it settle over the faint convexity of his stomach. 

“Your brother's cool, right?”

“The coolest.”

“Then chill out about whatever you're stressin' on,” Alex says, flapping his hand at Sam's body. 

Almost unconsciously, Sam's plucked a family-size bag of Cheetos from his dresser and has opened them with a cheesy pop. He goes to sit on Alex's bed and gets a fistful of the crunchy snack, chews them while Alex finishes packing the bowl and passes it over. He takes a hit and lets the smoke out in a long plume. 

“Your brother's not gonna judge,” Alex says, poking Sam in the belly to illustrate his point, and the thing is, Alex is right. Dean's never judged him, not for anything like this. And it's not like he's gained that much. Just enough to get him out of sickly-thin territory and into the average zone. By the end of the bag of Cheetos, Sam's quit worrying and is back to just being purely excited that he'll be seeing his brother in six days. Dean probably won't even notice the weight.

 

Dean shows up with a split lip and his right arm in a cast, and so the first few minutes of their joyful reunion are taken up by Sam's very vocal worrying and Dean's very impatient soothing.

“It's nothin, dude, come on! You've seen me worse off than this a thousand times. Back off so I can take a look at your sweet digs, huh?”

They're in Sam's dorm room, and Dean takes his time walking around the small space, poking around Alex's stuff in a way that normally Sam would object to, but he knows Dean's curiosity isn't personal – he just wants to make sure Sam's safe here. Sam lets him do his big brother thing, just pops the mini fridge and gets them a couple of beers while Dean paces. Finally Dean settles enough to come over and sit next to Sam on his bed, grinning.

“You weren't kidding about your rich roommate,” he says, clinking his beer bottle against Sam's. “That watch on his nightstand is worth over a thousand bucks. You think he'd notice if I --”

“Dean!” Sam says, though he knows his brother's just fucking with him. Dean laughs. “Alex is my best friend,” Sam says, savoring the words. He's never had a best friend before, and almost doesn't notice the shadow that passes over Dean's face. “Besides you, jerk,” Sam adds. “But be nice to him. He's to thank for this beer, and the snacks.” Speaking of – “Actually, my friend's mom, the one who bakes, she sent some cupcakes recently, if you want one.”

“Nah,” Dean says. “Had a burger a few hours ago.”

Sam shrugs and takes one for himself, unwrapping the sticky paper and licking frosting off his thumb, laughing as Dean talks about his most recent adventures. He has another one while they drink a second beer, and then, just to balance the salty/sweet, he eats a couple slices of Alex's cold leftover pizza. 

For dinner, Sam introduces Dean to the wonders of the dining hall, though he hadn't bargained on how out-of-place Dean looks among the fluorescent cafeteria lights, his beat-up leather jacket and beat-up face and general swagger setting him apart from the co-eds as obviously as night and day. Sam gets a little pang of pride watching everyone's face when they see how goddamn good-looking his brother is. He gives him a short tour of the food options, and when they plonk their trays down at Sam's usual table, all his friends crack up.

“So it's genetic,” Jess says, gesturing to Dean and Sam's overflowing trays, and Dean high-fives Sam with his good hand. 

The difference is, Dean's eyes are bigger than his stomach, and his capacity's nowhere near Sam's right now, so a good third of Dean's dinner goes untouched. Sam, on the other hand, puts down two slices of pizza, a grilled cheese, curly fries, three pork tacos, a plate of sweet-and-sour fried chicken and a rice, and most of Dean's cheeseburger. 

“And here I was worried you weren't getting enough to eat,” Dean says, thwacking Sam in his side. “No wonder you look so good, man. Finally puttin' so meat on those spindly little bones.”

“Right?” Alex says. “He showed up and all I wanted to do was tuck him in and feed him sandwiches.”

And that's the only thing Dean says about Sam's weight. He stays a week, one glorious week of eating and partying and introducing Dean to his new life, and he can see that Dean's reluctant to leave. 

“Come back anytime,” Alex tells him. “Sam here's twice as fun when you're around.”

“Seriously,” Sam says, standing outside his dorm in front of the Impala, trying to play it off like he's not close to tears. “Come back whenever, man.”

“Was thinking end of January,” Dean says. 

“Yes!” Sam says. “Come for your birthday and I'll throw you the greatest party you've ever had!”

“I bet,” Dean laughs, and pulls Sam down for a hug. “All right, buddy, see you in three months.”

 

By January, a few key things happen. 

One, Sam starts dating Jess.

Two, he outgrows another pair of jeans and has to admit he's edged out of the “healthy” territory and into “thick.” His t-shirts, so baggy to begin with, are all getting a little snug, and his barely-there-belly is suddenly a real presence, swelling over his waistband and pressing up against the front of his shirts so you can see the outline of his navel. His shirts pull against his pudgier chest and wrinkle around his shoulders, and they've started riding up a little, especially as he feeds himself throughout the day. 

He can't bring himself to care. He's not a hunter, and it doesn't matter. And Jess, bless her, Jess seems to kind of like it. 

They get together over cheesecake, in fact – a cheesecake that Jess's mom sends via Fed-Ex, a cheesecake Jess claims she doesn't want, a cheesecake that Sam eats while he and Jess watch a movie in her dorm room. It's only about an hour after he stuffed down a Burger King feast, so he starts off serving himself small slices, but they get bigger and bigger and by the fourth one, Jess takes the pie tin and puts it in Sam's hands, laughing.

“Don't be polite with me,” she says, and by the end of the movie Sam's eaten the entire cheesecake and is trying not to groan. If he were alone or with just Alex he'd be sighing and rubbing his belly and burping, but he doesn't wanna do that here, not next to this gorgeous girl. His t-shirt's riding up a little and even his new jeans are feeling kinda tight, and he puts a hand on his hard stomach, now undeniably convex, a mound rounding out from under his pudgy pecs. 

To his surprise, Jess lays a small hand on him, too, and starts rubbing firm circles in the stretched-out skin. The movement causes his t-shirt to ride up even further, exposing an inch or so of Sam's stretch-marked underbelly, and Jess pinches the hem between her thumb and forefinger and peels the shirt back like she's unwrapping a gift.

“Can I?” Jess says, and Sam's too full and surprised do anything but nod. She gets her hand up under his shirt and keeps up her rubbing, provoking a few helpless belches from him that she giggles at. She's so close, smells so good, her touch so sweet, and Sam's body can't help itself from responding. When she notices, her hand stills for a moment, and then she grins wide and appreciative. “It's like that, huh?” she says. 

“Um,” Sam says. “Yes?”

And then they're kissing. And then they're fucking. And now they're dating.

“Baby,” Jess coos in his ear, after several weeks of being together. “What time does your brother get here today?” she says. 

They're in his dorm room while Alex is in his girlfriend's room across campus, and Sam wakes up slowly, rubbing his bleary eyes and grimacing at the stickiness on his belly, a mixture of come and the pint of ice cream he'd put down as a midnight snack. He's a little hungover from both food and booze, and he groans as he checks his watch. It's nine thirty. “Noon,” he says. 

“Let's get some breakfast before he gets here,” she says. “It's waffles today.”

Sam wakes up a little faster. He fucking loves waffles. He pushes himself up to sit against his headboard, and Jess knuckles his stomach where it rounds out over his boxers. It's so soft in the early morning before he packs it full of food throughout the day, and Jess gives him a little jiggle, reaches up to get a handful of one of his growing pecs. 

Sam dresses slowly, sucking in a little to get the button of his jeans done up, then letting his belly relax outward. He had promised himself he'd get some new shirts before Dean showed up, but he hasn't had time, so he puts on an old one and looks at himself in the mirror.

Damn, he's packed it on. He can see it in his face now, too, around his jaw and under his chin, and he's getting wider as well. His arms brush up against his sides now when they hang loose, something he hasn't felt since his shoulders got so much broader than his hips. He sucks in his stomach, but even then he can't completely hide the weight he's put on in his belly, and after a second he lets his breath out in a whoosh and watches his t-shirt tighten again. 

“C'mon, tubby,” Jess says, smacking his ass. “Let's get you fed before that thing starts growling.”

“I am getting tubby,” Sam says, smoothing his shirt a little and trying in vain to pull it down. “It's only been three months since Dean saw me. What's he gonna think of this?”

“Your brother adores you,” Jess said, leaning up to give him a peck on the lips. “He doesn't care what size you are. And neither do I.”

As if to prove that, Jess is hyper-attentive to him at breakfast. As he plows through three syrup-drenched waffles, she's constantly getting up to refill his chocolate milk or bring him plates of bacon and sausage, and when he's pushed his plate away finally and is relaxing back into that feeling of breathless fullness, she's suddenly at his side with a huge bowl of chocolate soft serve covered in Oreos and chocolate sauce.

“Babe,” Sam groans, but she just nudges the bowl into his hands.

“I know you want it,” she says, and Sam does, of course he does. He spoons ice cream into his mouth while Jess rests one hand on his knee, and by the time he's finished eating, it's already eleven, just an hour 'til Dean's scheduled to arrive. 

Sam's tight shirt has gotten even tighter after his breakfast binge, and he pulls it down, hikes up his pants as he and Jess cross campus to go back to his dorm and wait for Dean.

“I'm gonna go back to my room,” Jess says, “and let you boys have some alone time. Call me later if you want to hang.” She pats his now-firm stomach and gives him a long, slow kiss that would've turned into something else if they'd had time.

Sam lies down on his bed to digest a little, letting out a huge rolling belch he'd been holding in since his fifth sausage link. He tucks a hand up underneath his shirt and tries to duplicate the amazing belly rubs that Jess gives, though it's not the same, and he lies there for awhile breathing and burping and rubbing. He tries to put his embarrassment and worry about his weight out of his mind and focus only on how happy he is to be seeing Dean again, and by the time there's a knock on his door at twelve thirty, he's feeling both calmer and less stupidly bloated. 

This time Dean's got a black eye and is moving gingerly around a fresh knife wound on his side, and again the first few minutes are all Sam clucking and Dean reassuring. 

But then Dean says, “Forget about me, look at you!” and Sam's blood runs cold. 

“You mean,” Sam says, and pats his tummy gingerly.

“Seriously, Sam, college is treating you like a king!” Dean says. “I didn't think you had it in you.”

“Um,” Sam says, flushing. “I just...”

“This is more than the freshman fifteen, I bet,” Dean says, circling Sam in awe.

“Freshman forty-five, last I checked,” Sam mumbles, and Dean lets out a long, low whistle. 

“When'd you check?”

“Couple'a weeks ago?” Sam says. 

“Gotta be the freshman fifty by now,” Dean says, and whistles again. “What about your new girl? Jess? She doesn't mind?”

“I think she likes it,” Sam admits, flushing even deeper, and Dean grins.

“You dog,” he says, shaking his head admiringly. “Well, it's about lunchtime. Bet you're hungry, huh?”

No, Sam wasn't hungry. He'd just spent the last hour and a half getting over his painful fullness from breakfast. But he's so relieved by Dean's non-judgmental attitude that he just grins and nods. 

“Starved,” he says.

They hit up a local bar and grill and start with a few beers, thank god, so by the time Sam's bacon cheeseburger comes around he's had even more time to digest and is a little tipsy. He attacks his burger and fries with gusto and gets a huge slice of Mississippi Mud Pie when he's finished, chugging his fourth beer fast so he can work up a few big belches and make room in his overstuffed stomach. He leans back in the booth when he's done, automatically rubbing circles in the side of his stretched belly, his t-shirt riding up to play peekaboo with his underbelly. 

“Damn,” Dean says again. “You must've gained like a pound a day out here.”

Sam purses his lips, thinking. “Nah,” he says after doing some calculations. “I've been here five months, so it's only ten pounds a month.”

“Huh,” Dean says. “Guess that's not that much. God, wish Dad could see you. He'd freak.”

Sam pats the side of his stomach again, smirking. A pound a day would be thirty pounds a month, which sounds like a lot, but isn't really, not if he thinks about it in terms of food. Logically, he'd have to eat three times as much to gain three times as much weight, which wouldn't be that hard, really. He could cut back on exercise, too – stay in bed and study instead of walking to the library, have Chinese delivered instead of walking the six blocks to pick it up, stay on campus for his afternoon classes instead of walking back to the dorm during his three-hour break. 

Dean, as if following his train of thought, says, “Bet you could, though. Gain a pound a day, I mean.”

“Probably,” Sam agrees. 

“Dad would freak,” Dean says again, but he says it wistfully, and Sam realizes his brother is living vicariously through him. Dean can't break free, but Sam did. He's totally free, out from John's thumb, and can do whatever he wants.

“Excuse me,” Sam says to a passing waitress. “Can I get another slice of this pie? Extra ice cream, please.”

“Oh my god,” Dean says, and Sam smiles. 

“When's your next visit?” Sam says. 

Dean is staring, and it takes him a second to answer. “Uh – probably beginning of April. About two months.”

The waitress sets the pie down in front of Sam and he thumps his belly, works up a few burps before picking up his fork. “I'll see what I can do,” he says, and Dean grins, slow and astonished.

“You're crazy,” he says, and jabs a finger at him. “Crazy and I like it.”

The week passes in a blur of food and drink and fun. He wakes up each morning to Dean standing above him with a huge milkshake, saying, “Chug it and let's hit the dining hall.” It feels like a secret, like something just between the two of them, and every time Sam asks for another order of fries or an extra helping of ice cream even though he's obviously full, he and Dean exchange glances and smile. 

It's kind of... hot. 

There it is. It's hot. There's an undeniable eroticism in eating in front of Dean – eating FOR Dean – and Sam keeps catching Dean staring at his belly, how bloated it gets by the end of the long days of stuffing. Once, Sam goes up a flight of stairs in front of his brother, and at the top Dean says, “Dude, your ass is getting huge,” and gives it a quick pat before pulling away. And Sam loves it. 

Later that night, after Sam's put away enough Chinese food to feed a family of five, he's reclining on his bed with his belly out and he looks up to see Dean staring again.

“You wanna,” Sam says, and gestures. “You wanna, um, touch it?”

“Can I?” Dean asks.

“Go for it, man. It feels... it feels really good, when I'm this stuffed.” 

Dean puts his hands on it, tentatively, like he's not sure what to do.

“Here,” Sam says, and takes Dean's hands, shows him what he likes. “This is how Jess does it.”

“Jess does this for you?” Dean asks.

“Most nights,” Sam says. 

“Hey, if I've been keeping you from her --” Dean says, but Sam shakes his head vehemently.

“Dude, no. I love spending time with you, you know that.”

“Well, if you wanna invite her back here with us, I don't mind,” Dean says. “As long you don't get nasty. Damn, dude, I can feel how much you've eaten. You're rock solid.”

“I know,” Sam sighs, touching his poor, put-upon belly. “It'll be softer in the morning.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, and in the morning Sam lets him touch it again, shows him how it's softer and jigglier. And that night, Jess stays over, and she and Dean take turns rubbing Sam's burrito-filled stomach, smiling at each other a little shyly. 

“Okay,” Dean says, hugging him goodbye. “I'll be back in April. You take care of yourself, and Jess. And that monster of yours.”

Sam pats his stomach and says, “See you in sixty pounds.”

“Yeesh,” Dean says, eyes getting huge. “We'll see about that.”

“You sure will,” Sam says.

 

Sam doesn't tell Jess what he's trying to do, but he knows she notices the way his eating has gone from full-speed to light-speed. He's always, always eating. Always digging into an open family-size bag of chips, or a bag of M&Ms, always chugging chocolate milk or milkshakes or huge bottles of soda. 

Whenever Dean calls, he asks, “Whatcha munchin' on today?” and Sam tells him.

“Well,” he says, “just ate a large pepperoni pizza and downed a 2-liter of orange soda. Now I'm workin' on an apple pie Jess's mom sent.”

“Goddamn,” Dean says. “A whole apple pie?”

Sam takes a shallow breath and hiccups, looks down at the half-eaten pie on his lap. “That's the idea,” he says. 

“Well, take a few bites for me, all right?” Dean says. “I just did a hundred push-ups and ran three miles. Ugh.”

“This one's for you,” Sam says, and takes a noisy mouthful. 

His friends are starting to comment, maybe a little worried at first, “Slow down there, Winchester, you're gonna choke,” when he crams two pieces of cake into his mouth in under a minute, or, gesturing to his burger, “Is that your second or third heart attack today?” but when Sam just grins and shrugs and belches and keeps going, clearly into it, clearly happy, they relax and start joking about it instead.

“I've got an extra ticket to the baseball game,” someone will say.

“Feed it to Sam!” someone else will shout, and everyone cracks up. 

He picks up some new, baggier t-shirts, and grows out of his third pair of jeans just two weeks after Dean leaves. That morning, Jess catches him lying flat on the bed trying to button them around the swollen bulge of his gut, and she comes over to straddle him, her long blond hair hanging down around his face. 

“Lost cause, cutie,” she says, and puts a hand on his softer morning belly, jiggles it a little, then leans down. At first Sam thinks she's going to kiss him, but she lowers her lips to his ear instead and says, “Admit it. You're proud. You wanted to get too fat for your jeans, didn't you?”

“Maybe,” Sam says, a little breathless from the way she's grinding down onto his cock. “Um--”

“Shhh,” she says, and reaches over to the snack stash on his bedside table, unwraps a twinkie with slow, deliberate movements and then taps his jaw. “Open up,” she says, and when he does, she pushes the entire thing into his mouth, using her slender fingers to press the cake past his lips. 

“Mmmf!” Sam says.

“Chew,” Jess directs. “Swallow.”

Sam does, and Jess is ready with another twinkie, and after that, a Snickers bar. She pats the crest of his belly as he chokes it down, and when he's done, she kisses his sugary mouth and squeezes his hip.

“Put on your sweatpants,” she says. “I'm taking you to breakfast.”

Even Sam's sweats are tight, straining around his widening ass and flabbier thighs, and he tugs them below his gut, his newly-softened sides muffining out over the waistband. Jess leans back on the bed and watches as he stuffs himself into them, pausing in the mirror to examine the way his stomach has rounded out, his pecs two little pudgy handfuls beginning to crease and droop. He can see them under his shirt, can see how his nipples are hard from Jess's twinkie action, and when he moves his head he watches his chin double up. He's got a few new stretchmarks, ragged pink stripes that run around the lower curve of his round stomach, and his neck is bigger, too, a little uncomfortable in the too-small neck of his t-shirt. There's chocolate on the corner of his mouth. 

They go to a diner, and Jess tucks herself under his arm as Sam orders two full breakfasts for himself: A stack of chocolate-chip pancakes with bacon, and the classic breakfast with sausage – two fried eggs, hashbrowns, and a bagel.

“Extra butter,” Jess tells the waitress, and Sam grins down at her. He tucks into his meal with gusto, and beneath the table her hand stays on his belly, feeling the way it bloats outward as he eats. Once, she asks for more syrup, and pours the whole thing slowly over Sam's remaining pancakes. He's quite full when he's done, breathing heavily and sucking in little gasps of air, and his stomach has rounded out so it's sitting on the top of his thighs. Automatically he reaches down to pop the button on his jeans, only to remember he's wearing sweatpants. 

“Ugh,” he says, leaning back.

“Full?” Jess asks.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and she pokes the crest of his tummy and kisses his softening neck. 

“He'll have a chocolate milkshake,” she tells the waitress.

Sam sucks it down pretty fast, feeling the cold ice cream settle in his belly in a way that's almost soothing, at first, until his stomach starts to gurgle in protest. When he's done and they've finally stood up, Sam's hand on his aching belly like a pregnant woman, his stomach sloshes audibly and he emits an enormous, liquidy burp that he can't swallow down in time. Another customer glares up at him in disapproval, but Jess just pats his swollen stomach.

“Poor baby,” she says, but five minutes after they've left the breakfast place she leaves Sam in the idling car while she runs into a donut store, and comes back to drop a dozen donuts on Sam's lap.

“Eat,” she tells him. “I want all these gone by the time we're back to campus.”

He's reclined the seat a little to give his belly more room, massaging its tightness, and he stares in disbelief. “Jess,” he says.

“Come on, baby,” she says. “I know you can do it. Think of how good it'll feel, all those donuts crammed into that fat belly of yours. They'll go straight to your gut, or your cute little bubble butt. Or maybe right here,” she says, patting his bicep. “Your arms are getting soft.”

“It's only a fifteen minute drive,” he protests weakly.

“Get chewing, then,” she says. 

Sam has never stuffed himself so quickly, and it's a little dizzying, shoving in donut after donut with no time for air, no time to feel how full he's getting, and he swallows the last jelly-filled mouthful just as Jess slides into her parking spot.

“Done,” he gasps, heaving for breath, and the second he stops he feels the true impact of how fucking full he is. “Oh my god,” he moans. “I feel like --” burrrrp “-- I feel like I swallowed a beach ball.”

“You look it, too,” Jess says, exploring the turgid expanse of Sam's stomach with her little hand, which looks dwarfed by the bloat. She digs her perfectly manicured nails into his belly and then gives it an experimental pat, which startles another wet belch from Sam. He's closer to puking than he has been since he started stuffing himself, and he and Jess take the elevator to his room instead of walking up the single flight of stairs.

He collapses on the bed immediately and tugs up his t-shirt for better belly-access, staring in disbelief at how huge his stomach looks from this angle, how stretched and round. It's still gurgling unhappily, and Jess curls up next to him to rub it. He stifles a burp and she says, “It's okay, baby, let it all out, you did such a good job,” and so he gives himself over to fullness for the next half hour, panting and burping and puffing small noisy farts until he falls asleep, Jess's hand still soothing his agonized stomach.

 

After that, Jess is full-on his accomplice. She keeps him fuller than he ever thought imaginable, and once Alex figures out that Sam actually wants to gain weight, he starts helping, too. Sam comes home after lunch and Alex will have a large pizza sitting on his bed, along with a slightly melted milkshake. 

“You have until dinner,” Alex tells him. “Four hours should be plenty of time, right? Here, hit this bong.”

Jess shows up to take him to dinner, and coos over the empty pizza box and Sam's sauce-smeared t-shirt, how his belly sits in his lap, how his new t-shirt has ridden up and is bunching beneath his beefy chest. She takes a picture and sends it to Dean, who replies simply, “Hot damn.”

Sam's center of gravity is shifting too quickly for him to keep up with, and he gets a little clumsier, starts bumping into people or tripping or misjudging distance and smacking into doorframes. He can't figure out how to get comfortable anymore, has to adjust his posture and sitting in order to accommodate his quick growth. One week it's most comfortable to lean back in his chair while he eats, the next week it's more comfortable to lean forward, resting his elbows on the table and spreading his legs a little to let his belly come forward between them. He's constantly achy, constantly stuffed, and as a consequence is often gassy, huffing difficult little burps or trying to stifle his farts in public.

By the time the beginning of April rolls around, Sam's up another size in jeans – bought by Alex – and he feels truly heavier, is almost shocked by how heavy he feels, and in such a short time. It's harder to haul himself out of bed in the morning, harder to climb in and out of Alex's little sports car, and when he sits in class, his belly pushes up against the desk. He gets a little sweaty, now, just walking from class to class, and the flight of stairs to his dorm winds him enough that he starts taking the elevator just so people won't hear him pant. 

In the mirror he looks round and literally swollen, his cheeks puffed up, his belly big and stretchmarked and firm, his arms soft, his ass straining his jeans. His back has developed a few rolls he can feel even when he's standing but especially when he's sitting.

“You've gained so fucking quickly,” Jess says. “You're just not used to it. Soon you won't feel nearly so big.”

“It's just so heavy,” Sam marvels, gripping his belly and giving it a shake. “Now I know how pregnant women feel.”

“You waiting 'til Dean gets here to weigh yourself?” Jess asks. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, patting his tummy and watching it jiggle a little. “This whole thing was kinda his idea, anyway.”

“Yeah, right, tubby,” Jess says. “You were on your way well before he came.”

“Guess you're right,” Sam chuckles.

 

It's all worth it when Dean's eyes nearly pop out of his head when he sees Sam.

“Holy shit,” he says. “Jesus, you're getting fat.”

“I know,” Sam says, tugging down his t-shirt where it's climbing up. He thumps the side of his stuffed belly, rubs the undercurve a little where it's poking out. It's started to droop down, and he can feel it shake when he walks now, has to spread his legs a little to let it hang when he sits. “Go ahead and touch it, if you want.”

Dean does, immediately, gets his hands all up in Sam's business and crowds him until Sam has no choice but to sit down heavily on his bed with an “Oof.”

“Jess helped,” Sam says.

“I bet she did, that little minx,” Dean says. “So – what's the damage?”

“Haven't checked,” Sam says. “Was waiting for you. Scale's in the bathroom. You mind if I call Jess, though? She wants to be here for this.”

“Fuck yeah,” Dean says. “Call your girl.”

When Jess gets there, she and Dean and Sam all crowd into the dorm bathroom and lock the door behind them. Sam's in a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and he has to suck in and press his belly back with both hands in order to see the red numbers on the scale.

“Two seventy,” Jess reads out. “Oh my god.”

Sam does some rapid calculations, and deflates a little. “Fifty,” he says. “I've gained fifty pounds. Well, fifty one.”

“Sammy,” Dean says, “you cannot seriously be disappointed. You gained fifty fucking pounds in two months. That's – I can't even --”

“Look at it this way,” Jess says. “You gained a hundred pounds in a little over half a year.”

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes, realization hitting him. “I've gained a hundred pounds.”

Jess throws her arms around him and kisses him passionately on the mouth, and when she releases him, she throws her arms around Dean, too, and shocks the hell out of everybody by frenching the fuck out of him. Dean responds enthusiastically, grabbing her around her slender waist and palming her ass, and Sam gets hard watching them, one hand on his belly, his mouth hanging open. 

“Um, sorry,” she says, when she finally pulls back. “I've just... wanted to do that for a while. And, c'mon, let's be honest about what's happening here. We both wanna bang Sam.”

“I,” Dean stutters, “I don't,” and Jess reaches over and picks Dean's hands up and plants them firmly on Sam's gut. 

“It's okay,” she says.

“Yeah?” Dean says, and Sam says, “Fuck yeah.”

The next few hours are a blur of skin and pudge and little breathy moans and total pleasure. 

When they finally get their shit together and climb out of bed, they hit a Chinese buffet and sit all three of them to one booth, Sam wedged in the middle, and Jess and Dean take turns bringing him plates of food, until he's slouched down, wheezing, and his belly is pushing against the edge of the table.

The rest of the week passes just like that, and Sam can't remember ever being happier. Jess cries when Dean has to leave, and he kisses the top of her head and then kisses Sam and says, “Okay Sammy, I'll be back in June. Bathing suit season. You know what that means. Keep him safe, Jess, okay?”

“Keep me stuffed, you mean,” Sam says, and Dean smirks. 

“That too.”

Jess starts calling Dean every night, telling him what Sam's had to eat that day and detailing the changes in Sam's body.

“He's been having some trouble tying his shoes,” she giggles. “He comes up all red-faced and breathless, and the other day he dropped a pen and had to drop to one knee to get it. Then he needed to grab the table to haul himself up. He has to lean back to get enough lapspace for his computer; his tummy takes up too much room.”

Or, “He's eaten two pizzas since he woke up, and we're about to go to lunch. He can't get enough.”

Sometimes Dean gives them orders, like, “Eat six cheeseburgers today before you go to sleep,” or, “Eat a gallon of ice cream before dinner.”

Sam gains another forty pounds by June, putting him over three hundred, and he's had no time to get used to how heavy he is now. He breathes more heavily than he used to even when he's not stuffed full, and he sometimes puts a palm to the wall as he walks, trying to catch his balance. It's a hell of a lot of weight to put on in less than a year, and his body's not quite sure what to do with it. His stomach's taken the brunt of the gain, and his arms feel shorter, pushed out by his wide sides. He rests his hands on his belly whenever he's sitting, and when he's not public he likes to wedge both hands under his gut and hold it up, marveling at how big he's gotten.

Dean marvels, too, when he shows up, a little bruised but not really any worse for the wear. 

“Fuck, this thing is heavy,” he says, standing in front of Sam and hefting his gut with both hands. “You must be hot, in this weather.”

“God, I am,” Sam says.

“Let's go swimming, then,” Dean suggests, and Jess squeals her agreement.

They have to get Sam a pair of swim trunks, since the ones he brought to college don't even come close to fitting anymore, and then they make the drive to the beach, Sam sitting in the back of the Impala slurping on a milkshake, his stomach shaking as they bounce over potholes. 

He's a little shy once they're on the beach itself and he sees all the gorgeous, tanned bodies all around him, but they coax him out of his t-shirt and Jess rubs sunscreen carefully over every inch of him, making the act a little more erotic than totally necessary. When she's done, Sam has to reach under his gut to adjust himself. 

They brought low beach chairs, the kind with seats that rest on the sand, and Sam gets to one knee to sit down in his, his stomach mounded out over his thighs, legs stretched out in front of him.

“Even your toes are getting pudgy,” Dean says, leaning down to squeeze one.

“All of me is pudgy,” Sam says. He relaxes under the warm light of the sun and feels heavier than ever, his ass spread across the sand and his sides squeezing into the armrests of the beach chair. He puts both hands on the crest of his belly, admires the way his firm pudgy chest rests on top of it, feels the way his chin doubles up as he looks down.

Dean leans over and pats his tummy with proud, proprietary firmness. “Lookin' good,” he says.

“Looking great,” Jess counters. 

“Looking hungry,” Dean adds, and begins to unpack the cooler.

Sam strokes his stomach idly, feeling heavy and lazy and as unlike a hunter as he's ever felt in his whole life. He puts a palm on the side of his belly, awed at how round he's gotten. 

“Dad would freak,” Sam says happily.

“You did it, dude,” Dean says. “You're out. You're safe.”

“I'm safe,” Sam repeats, and finally, he believes it.


End file.
